Enduring Freedom, page 24
“You think your America is so perfect!?” Baheer shouted. “I watch the news. I see the stories of children in your country shooting guns in schools! I see rich Americans in big castle houses and others live on the ground like a dirty dog. No food!”
“America is better than Afghanistan by every objective measure. There’s no comparison.”
For a moment Joe thought Baheer was about to throw a punch. Good. He welcomed it. He wanted to fight. Scream. Punch something, someone, anyone. But Baheer regained control. “Then why are you even here? Afghanistan did not attack you! Why don’t you all leave?” He turned and stormed away to his truck, climbing inside and slamming the door.
Joe watched him go, wondering for a moment if he should apologize. But then the image of that burned girl flashed in his memory again and rage burned through him.
Farah, Afghanistan
May 1, 2004
What are you doing?” Rahim asked that morning as Baheer was buttoning up his school shirt. “I thought you said you had permission to miss school this morning because you and Uncle Kabir were going to drive to pick up supplies for the Americans from the airport in Herat.”
Baheer finished with the last button. He frowned, looking at his brother, surprised to find Rahim the first one dressed and ready for school. “The cargo flight into Herat was canceled.” He shrugged. “Who knows why. This is hardly the first time a canceled American flight has messed up plans.” They think they are so powerful and advanced, but they can’t even figure out simple flights.
“You know what will happen,” Rahim said. “The Americans will change their minds again, and then they will be upset you are not already in Herat. Maybe you and Uncle Kabir should just go up to Herat to be ready for when the plane arrives.”
Baheer frowned. Why is Rahim suddenly so interested in the business? “That’s crazy. They’ll let us know when to expect the shipment to come in. We’re lucky they told us the flight was canceled before we drove all the way there.”
“I know, but . . .” Rahim paced the room.
“Are you OK?”
“Sure,” Rahim said. He tugged at his collar. “I just hate these stupid Western clothes, especially as it is starting to get hot. I sweat so much. I just wish we didn’t have to go to school today. Maybe we could—”
“Today the Americans are supposed to be coming to the school with a whole truckload of supplies. Paper. Pens. Chalkboards. Even desks. Can you imagine not having to sit on the floor in class?”
“No,” Rahim said quietly.
“I only wish we could have got the contract to deliver the supplies, but we went for the Herat deal instead because it was higher pay.” Baheer grabbed his book bag and headed for the door. “Come on. We don’t want to miss the big event.”
Later, at school, Baheer thought about the progress he’d made. He was currently second in the line, eager to finally earn the top place. His last chance to move up and secure the front of the line for the start of next year was in the final exams that would start next week. He had been studying with every spare moment he could find, and he felt good about his chances of moving into first place. Baheer turned to look down the line, to see how far he’d come. There, near the back of the line, was Rahim, wiping sweat from his brow as he watched Baheer. Maybe he’s jealous of my accomplishment? Well, then he should have actually studied. After the recitation from the Holy Quran, the principal talked about the exam times and other small matters.
Baheer’s thoughts wandered, drifting, as they often did, to Ayesha. She was determined to go to school, despite whatever risks her father imagined. Now, Baheer could see her every day without needing to go way out by the twisted tree because she was attending the school next door. With the new construction on the girls’ compound entrance, they even had to temporarily come and go through the front section of the boys’ compound. Baheer had been delighted to see Ayesha at least twice already right here in school. He had been very careful to act as though he didn’t notice her at all.
And if Ayesha and other girls could attend school, if more girls like Ayesha were being educated, maybe Maryam could study without risking her reputation as Baba Jan feared. Baheer knew he couldn’t admit to knowing a strange girl as part of his argument for convincing Baba Jan to let Maryam go to school, though. Such an admission would have the opposite effect from what Baheer hoped.
If they were ever going to beat the Taliban, there would need to be more men like Ayesha’s father who could accept the risks and allow the girls to learn. Good people couldn’t continue surrendering to threats. Both women and men should be given the chance to study and contribute to build a more peaceful and compassionate society. That was what Baheer was working toward. That was his life’s work.
But he couldn’t call on the courage of others, unless he could first summon some of his own. He’d thought about the problem of good people continuing to surrender to the threat of the Taliban, and what had he done? He’d yelled at Joe, a good friend who had helped Baheer improve his English so that he could help his family make more money with their trucks. Even if Joe could be an arrogant American jerk sometimes, he was, or at least he had been, sincerely trying to make things better for Afghans everywhere. He was still mad at Joe. Maybe if Joe at least says he’s sorry, things could be OK between us.
Baheer knew he had to talk to Baba Jan again, and this time continue his efforts to persuade the man to allow Maryam to attend school.
As the principal’s remarks came to an end, the two school guards opened the compound’s main vehicle gate. At last the Americans had arrived. Two Humvees and a Toyota Land Cruiser entered the compound and parked in a line near the assembly area.
Like Baheer had seen them do many times before, the soldiers quickly exited their trucks and circled around for security. An uncomfortable mix of dread and anger twisted around in his stomach. Would Joe be here? He really did not want to face him after their argument. The Americans had helped Afghans regain their country, but their kindness was often matched by their ignorance and arrogance.
Joe was the last to exit the tailing Humvee, running to join the rest of his squad in the circle of men around their vehicles.
“Hey, Baheer! Americans!” Omar shouted with joy. He had worked hard, too, and now stood right behind Baheer.
“What is so exciting about it?” Baheer said.
“Man, they are here. They will give us something. They always have candy at least.”
“Probably Jolly Ranchers,” Baheer murmured.
“What?” Omar asked.
Baheer thought he may have finally understood Baba Jan’s old reluctance to trust Americans and embrace Baheer’s study of English. Americans weren’t so great. They weren’t superheroes. Far from it. “If we want to build this country we have to study and work hard. We have to do things on our own. These rich and arrogant Americans can’t build it for us,” Baheer said.
Omar waved away his concern. “I don’t care. They are here to help us.”
While Baheer and Omar had been talking, a big truck rolled in. It began pulling forward and back, trying to get closer to the school building. When it was finally parked and its engine shut down, one of the Americans released a lock and swung open the cargo doors. The entire shipping container on the truck was packed floor to ceiling with chairs and desks. There were a few pallets loaded with boxes of paper and pens.
“Look at all that!” Omar said. “How can you not understand they are great?”
Baheer understood that if his family had been awarded the contract to ship these supplies instead of a deal to pick up a load in Herat, they would have earned good and much-needed money. Instead they were given an empty apology for a canceled flight.
“Yeah. These chairs will build Afghanistan. These chairs will let girls go to school. Chairs are going to stop the killing. Yes. These chairs will bring peace and stability in our country.”
Omar was usually a joker, but for once he was serious. “Come on, man. Do you really think we’d even have this school if not for what the Americans did?” He nodded toward a line of girls being led from their compound toward the main gate. He didn’t dare do more than nod. The boys had strict instructions to behave with honor when the girls came through. “Do you think they’d be in school if not for the Americans?”
Baheer’s breath caught at the sight of Ayesha leading the line of girls. He wasn’t prepared to admit out loud that Omar was right, but in the very depth of his heart he knew. This was true. The Americans did help. But they were still often jerks.
All three of First Squad’s vehicles were parked in a line in a big open courtyard inside the school compound. Alpha Team’s lead Humvee, with Z on the .50-cal. machine gun turret, had set up closer to the big white concrete-block school building. The CA’s Toyota Land Cruiser was parked one vehicle length behind that, and Bravo Team’s Humvee another length behind that. Joe had been picked to drive, so Baccam manned the Mk 19.
“I’m so not into this today.” Joe rubbed his eyes. The nightmare about Shaista had robbed him of sleep again.
The CA was jokingly calling this Operation Mega School since it was the biggest school-supply drop they’d ever coordinated. Baheer had often told him about the primitive conditions at his school. Finally, the kids would have some desks and chairs instead of just sitting on the floor, and there was enough paper and stuff to last for a while. But what difference would any of this make in a country where it was not uncommon for girls to be burned like Shaista had been?
Rumor was, Joe’s unit would be rotated out and sent home next month or maybe the month after. He was done with Afghanistan.
“Had a dream last night,” Baccam called down from the turret. “A freaky one. We were on some mission that had totally fallen apart. We were driving down this narrow alley between mud-brick walls, bullets flying at us. Being chased by the Taliban. And our Hummer rolled up to a dead end. Sergeant Paulsen was like, ‘Shoot the wall!’ so I blasted it with the Mk 19. Then we were just running and gunning through the village. It was nuts.”
“Sounds worse than mine,” Joe said.
An Afghan man, some official of the school, began speaking to all the boys in the nearby courtyard.
“Bale!” the boys shouted at once. Joe knew this meant “yes.”
“Good news,” Sergeant Paulsen said, stepping toward his team from his part of the security circle around the vehicles. “Our terp says the principal has just volunteered the kids to unload this truck for us. There are a million kids. They’ll form a human chain and this will go fast and easy.”
Joe watched the line coming, Baheer among its leaders. Baheer offered no greeting, and Joe didn’t wave. Instead he turned around and went back to the empty task of covering his sector.
As Baheer marched toward the jingle truck, he saw Joe turn away. Baheer did not like Joe’s attitude. If it was not for our school and people, I wouldn’t agree to help with this.
Baheer led the line, followed by Omar, but Rahim moved forward and said, “Hey, Brother. Maybe you and I should go see where these materials will go in the classroom. There are enough people to unload the trucks.”
“There will be a teacher or someone inside to decide where things will go. Come on. Get in the line and pass things along.” Baheer picked up the first chair and turned to hand it to Rahim, but before he could release his grip, a loud metal clang shook the air.
A small pickup was ramming the front gate, bending the steel doors and breaking the hinges.
“Get down!” Rahim pulled Baheer to the ground.
The pickup exploded. The gate went flying. The shockwave was hot and strong, knocking everybody down. Baheer grabbed for his brother, trying to cover him with his own body.
Everyone was screaming, but after the explosion, it was like all sound had been swallowed. Baheer froze when he saw Omar lying on the ground next to him, looking up at the sky.
A big piece of steel had sliced diagonally through Omar’s chest and shoulder. He was dead.
“O Allah!” Baheer shouted.
Baheer’s brain was not working. He couldn’t think of what to do except to find cover. Hands shaking, he grabbed Rahim by his collar and pulled him behind the jingle truck.
In the next instant a big bus rolled in, parking horizontally to form a wall in front of the gate. They were all trapped. Some of the students were rolling in blood.
Men don’t cry. Baheer recalled his grandfather’s words.
Gunfire erupted from within the bus. The Americans shot back. Everyone shouted. Baheer looked to his right, noticing that the girls who had been leaving class were caught in the middle of everything. They were crying, screaming. Some of them were hurt and on the ground. Baheer couldn’t move. Bullets were raining down. A few hit the ground a couple of feet from where his brother and he were hidden.
Joe felt like someone had punched him in the chest when the explosion had knocked him down. You’re alive, Joe! Do something! He patted his legs, arms, chest—all there, shrapnel in vest.
“Baccam, light up that bus!” Paulsen screamed from the ground where he’d dropped to start shooting.
“Grenades in the school compound?” Baccam yanked the charging handles on the Mk 19, the first step in readying it to fire.
A cacophony of gunfire, dozens of white flashes in the bus windows. A bullet hit the ground near Joe’s leg. Another. One sparked off the Humvee.
“Get cover!” Joe yelled.
“Get this jingle truck out of my way!” Z screamed from behind his .50-cal.
“Baccam, NOW!” Paulsen screamed.
Joe scramble-crawled. “Hold your weapon!” he said to himself. And somehow, he was behind the Humvee, on his feet, crouched behind the vehicle’s sloped back end.
“Joe!” Paulsen shouted. “Radio! Call it in!”
Joe threw open the passenger door, the inside of the Humvee loud with dozens of bullet impacts, like the thing was being pounded with a bunch of hammers. He grabbed the radio handset and hit the transmit button. “Seattle Base, this is First Squad! Emergency! Emergency! Couple dozen Taliban attacking school. Bunch of people hurt! We need QRF and medics now! How copy? Over!” Come on, guys. You better be monitoring the radio. If he had to wait, he’d punch someone.
“First Squad, Seattle Base. Evacuate the school and RTB. Over.”
Joe hit the transmit button again. “Negative! We can’t return to base. They’re blocking the gate. We’re trapped at the school compound. Get QRF here now! Over!”
“Roger that, First Squad. Be advised QRF is inbound to your position. ETA ten mikes. How copy? Over.”
“Ten minutes!” Joe tossed the radio handset. Ten minutes was an eternity in a fight. “That’s how I copy!”
He rushed to the sloped back of the Humvee, flicked his weapon’s fire-selector switch from SAFE to SEMI, and opened up on the bus. Pulling the trigger as fast as he could, he turned that M16 into a machine gun, emptying his magazine in about seven seconds. He squatted down, his back against the Humvee as he pressed the release button to drop the empty mag and fumbled to pull another from his ammo pouch.
A Toyota pickup rushed through the gate behind the cover of the bus. It rolled out at an angle off the bus’s back end into the courtyard. The rear of the pickup was packed with Taliban fighters. Bullets rained down on Joe’s Humvee.
“Don’t let ’em get around behind us!” Cavanaugh called.
A second pickup rolled into the compound at the opposite angle past the front of the bus, some of their fighters shooting at a group of girls, some at the squad.
Mac cursed. “How many of them are there?”
Baheer stayed on the ground between the jingle truck and the front Humvee, the two vehicles parked side by side. He called to his other classmates to get behind the jingle truck or the Humvees. Nobody could hear him, but he was trying. The gunfire was so loud, he felt he was stabbed in the ears with every shot.
Rahim screamed near his ear to be heard, “I’m bleeding.”
A metal rod from the gate had lodged in his brother’s shoulder. Blood poured out. So much blood! “O Allah!” The helpless prayer was all he could muster, but as if his prayer were answered, Baheer knew what to do. Another prayer for strength helped him tear away part of one of his shirt sleeves. “Press this on the wound to stop the bleeding. You’ll be OK.”
Rahim followed his instructions, and although Baheer didn’t want to leave him, he had to help the others. Gathering the attention of the other kids who could walk, Baheer motioned for them to move behind the Humvees.
“Let’s go toward the school building!” Rahim screamed, holding the blood-soaked cloth to his shoulder.
Baheer’s group tried to run that way, but Taliban gunfire from the second pickup blocked their path. The sound of girls screaming could somehow be heard over the roar of the battle.
“You sick haramis! You shoot the girls, you filthy cowards! Shoot me, if you have the courage!” Baheer shouted as if they would care or hear him. A classmate right next to Baheer was crying. He’d peed in his pants.
Baheer tried to hold his nerves. He was terrified, scared of losing Rahim—or Ayesha, whom he’d seen screaming just before the second pickup had blocked his view.
A soldier in the machine gun hole of the Humvee behind them kept cursing. Baheer could just make out what he was saying. “He can’t shoot! The truck’s in his way.”
Rahim pulled at his arm. “Come on! We can make it if we rush to the school!”
Baheer looked back to the truck driver slumped over the steering wheel. Dead. “Someone has to move that truck.” Baheer said it without even thinking.
“Not us!” said Rahim.
